The Kingsfoil Delirium
by Gaara and his Little Panda-kun
Summary: Frodo is stabbed on Weathertop. From the outside looking in, it's terrible. From the inside looking out, it's sublime.  Frodo's POV. Movieverse.


**The Kingsfoil Delirium**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the LOTR franchise or any of JRR Tolkien's works.

**Warning:** This is a movieverse fanfiction! I want to read the books so badly, but I can't seem to get my hands on a copy... Damn it.

I am ill.

I can't quite make out anything but figures as the darkness becomes my haven. As the sun sets, the ever-moving body of the person carrying me, whose name escapes me, becomes clearer. I can only see blurry outlines of his muscular figure, but I feel as though I had seen his contours clearly once before. It seems like ages ago, as my mind suddenly blurs out all thought. I hear a sharp cry in the night that I unwillingly reciprocate. As much as I feel I should resist... I cannot do so.

I was stabbed.

That's all I can recall. That's why I'm being settled onto the ground by that strange figure from before, with my eyes only seeing the world being blown about wildly. That's why a small wave of heat-unnoticable if I were too far away-is radiating off of a heavy weight on my chest. That's why, as I burrow my way further into the darkness consuming me, I can feel the head pulsing and growing warmer.

I feel an unnerving presence above me.

"Look," it says, but the words are blocked out and fuzzy, like there were miles of cloth between it and my ears. "It's Mr. Bilbo's trolls." And I feel myself asking, who is Mister Bilbo? A part of me screams at this, breaks into tears and scratches at my mentality. But I am not wounded, merely confused. Why is that part of me lashing out at forgetting a simple name? Names can be relearned, over and over again. "Mr. Frodo? He's going cold!" the voice above me yells, and the muscular presence, who I am slightly more familiar with, is here. It is touching me, and I don't mind.

Who is Mister Frodo?

I'm delving deeper and deeper into this dark pit within my mind. Names are being forgotten, but discerning features are beginning to linger. Calloused hands studying my face are instantly identified with the muscular presence. And at first, I thought for certain that the night enhanced my vision, but now it's died down again, to the point where I can see normally. But when a flame is pulled over my face to assist the calloused fingers noting every inch of my face, I go blind. At first it was maddening, but now it is becoming almost routine.

The flame leaves.

I hear a roaring in the distance. It is not anything I can respond to with certainty. The roaring slowly eases into coherence as I grow more and more tired and cold. _'...Isildur...heir...halfling...she-elf...' _I feel as if I have no response, as if I'm sitting in a lecture that meant worlds to me, should I pay attention. But I am too concerned, too focused now, on the noises funneling their way through my ears. The roaring seems to fade out, or maybe it's because I turned my attention from it? Whatever be the case, I realise I've hit a level of simplicity and sublimity I think I'd never felt before. It's hard to tell; the harder I try, the farther I'm pushed from my former entity. But this simplicity is like a patient parent with three children; I feel as though I can turn my attention to each of them in due time, at my own pace.

A light pierces my soul.

It was sudden and unexpected; just as I was becoming acquainted with the damp warmth of the darkness taking me in, this light blinds me instantaneously and makes me tremble with fear. A voice cracks through the walls guarding my ears and the noise is so sharp and strong that I cringe. I begin to feel uncomfortable, like my haven and reverie was broken, and so I cry out to my bretheren for help, a loud screeching noise that is still somehow confined outside the walls the voice has gotten into.

And, at once, it fades.

The light has left me now, and I'm left back into this world of total darkness and sight. I'm lifted and sat on something, but I don't really notice. As I fade further still, my sight becomes more acute, and my hearing only focused on a few things; the voices of the beings around me are fading, but the roars in the distance are clearer, and the screeching of my brothers, and the heartbeat, not in, but on my chest.

I'm still having a hard time figuring out who this Mr. Frodo is.

I've wracked my brain, but searching for information in my head right now is kind of like searching for a book when the books are being thrown everywhere and edited constantly. I can't pinpoint who this Mr. Frodo was, but I do know I knew him from somewhere.

The screams!

I can hear them; the screams melding into voices as I suddenly realised that I was being bumped around harshly. My brothers, my bretheren, screaming to me; _We shall retrieve you. We will have you. _I feel a sting at the informality of them-or was it a part of me, way back in my mind, recoiling from those words?-but choose to accept it nonetheless. I was being saved. I was going to be rescued.

The world is blurring.

I don't know if we are flying or falling, but the landscape seems now like a windy place, the trees themselves smudging far beyond their limits. In a world of blurry landscapes in daylight, I am certainly not experiencing that description, but far beyond it. Instead of seeing better in the daylight, my sight is hindered; instead of seeing blurs, I see windy, stretching landscapes.

The screeches have not arrived yet.

Why have they not arrived? Are they lingering around me, deciding whether or not to rescue me? Are they beating me, and that's why I'm jostling about? Oh, how horrid a fate to meet at the hands of my newfound brothers, but I do not think anything of it. Surely they must be helping me somehow. I am unaware if I can feel pain in this half-and-half state or not. I hope it's the latter.

We stop.

The jostling about stops. The brisk movement stops. All the jerking about stops. I am relieved. Now I may think more on that Mr. Frodo. Whoever he is, he certainly is an elusive fellow, if not anything else. My vision's dark and I suddenly feel myself being yanked into the abyss. I'm laid down on something that feels cold and wet, but I think nothing of it. I'm unaware of what's going on to my body, as I detached from it a while ago.

And then, I suddenly shut down.

All was silent and black behind my eyelids. I felt like I was being pulled out of a deep grave, and the dirt was not removed from above me. A heavy weight was following me forward, but once I was pulled entirely out, the weight was gone. A light shone brightly and I suddenly opened my eyes to see the landscape around me lit up by sunshine. I didn't instantly recognise my surroundings, but I did recognise my dear Gandalf sitting in a chair next to my bed, smoking his pipe.

"Frodo!"

My eyes shoot open at the name and I turn to look at my dear Sam, running to me and grabbing my hand. With a startled feeling I suddenly realise...

I am Mr. Frodo. It was me the whole time.

"Bless you, you're awake!"

I'm overjoyed to see him, to be back in my old skin, with memories rushing back to me faster than I could handle. But now I get to relive my life quickly, rediscover Frodo Baggins of the Shire. Despite being in the moment with Sam, I am secretly within my own mind. I am aghast.

To think that, because of the Ring, I had forgotten myself.

I swear, in the future, I'll never let that happen. No matter what, the Ring will never change who I am.

_**I love that bit o' irony there, because it ultimately DOES change him. Poor fellow...**_

_**Oh, I'd like to inform you that, without hope or agenda, I have always been deeply, madly, heartbreakingly in love with Elijah Wood and Frodo Baggins. And that may affect my writing. I may just insert an OC into a story one day that falls deeply, madly, heartbreakingly in love with Frodo. And you'll know it's me. XD**_


End file.
